


Align Our Stars

by eff_reality



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, New York City, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:58:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eff_reality/pseuds/eff_reality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zach is a hardworking, somewhat jaded makeup artist working on the first film he may actually like.  Chris is the ambitious but troubled lead actor of said film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first posted story in this fandom, though there are many in progress. These boys got me right in the feels (and the loins) and aren't letting go.

Zach throws on a pair of aviators to conceal the sleep in his eyes before heading off to the L train with a heavy sigh. _Another day, another dollar._ Emphasis on dollar, singular.

Zach loves what he does, but he’s getting kind of fucking sick of having to trek all the way to fucking Williamsburg every time another short film needs a makeup artist to do “bloodwork” on short notice. It’s always on short notice.

To be fair, this isn’t any other short film about an aspiring young filmmaker whose girlfriend breaks up with him, leaving him devoid of inspiration (seriously). Zach had found he’d actually given a shit about the film’s subject matter when he’d gotten the call from the AD, who’d explained it all to him just a couple of days before. It’s certainly timely: an Iraq war vet dealing with PTSD after enduring sexual assault while detained. And innovative: the vet in question is male. After finally receiving a copy of the script to his e-mail the night before, Zach had perused in preparation and found himself quite impressed.

There’s obviously a lot of violence in the film, but he hasn’t had the privilege of attending any rehearsals (if there have been any), so he’s not sure what to expect. He’s come prepared, though, his full arsenal all packed up neatly in a rolling suitcase and his more basic stuff in a backpack. 

It’s definitely not fun carrying all this shit onto the subway, though. He hums “What I Did For Love” to himself as he hops the suitcase up to ground level, step by excruciating step. 

When he arrives on set—an abandoned parking lot overlooking the water—the director, J.J., introduces himself and spends just a few minutes describing the level of gore that’ll be needed for the day. They’ve scheduled the entire shoot in such a way that the really difficult stuff is accomplished early on, the scenes getting lighter and lighter as filming progresses. “This’ll probably be the most challenging day for you,” J.J. smiles.

Zach glances around, watching as more people arrive, swarming around the craft services table and buttering their bagels half-asleep. A couple of stunt guys are already in full costume, looking totally silly to Zach as they pour each other orange juice in their army fatigues, their dogtags glinting in the morning sun.

J.J. gives him a friendly shove, urging him to eat and pointing out a large van housing some of the equipment and serving as an indoor space for actors to change and for Zach to do his work. “The indoor locations will be a little more glamorous, I promise.” And with that, J.J. is off to start talking a game plan with his DP.

Zach grabs half a bagel and a big, black cup of coffee for himself, somehow managing to transport it with all of his equipment to the van. He all but throws his backpack and suitcase to the ground before flinging the heavy metallic sliding door open, only to find a startled pair of blue eyes staring at him. Said eyes are so blue that they leave Zach startled, too.

“Shurry,” Zach says, then pulls the rim of his coffee cup out of his mouth to speak properly. He notices the army fatigues and smiles. “I’m Zach, I’m makeup. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Chris,” the guy says, voice more than a little rough around the edges. He extends a hand, though he doesn’t seem up for smiling just yet. “You’re not. I was waiting for you, actually.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Zach says, impressed. Chris is his lead actor, he remembers from the call sheet. He can’t remember a single shoot where an actor was actually waiting on _him_. “Great. Just—sit tight, and let me get set up here.”

“Okay,” Chris exhales, shaking his hands out and resting his head against the seatback. He closes his eyes, slipping into what looks like some sort of meditation—or anxiety attack, Zach can’t be sure.

Zach manages to finish his breakfast in a few voracious bites and sips between opening up his suitcase and extracting everything he’s going to need. While Chris sits prone with his eyes closed, Zach takes the opportunity to step closer—over his makeup pallette and a Kino light—and get a better look at his face. There’s ample light from the sun, but unfortunately he and Chris aren’t facing it. “I’m gonna just…” Zach pushes his sunglasses into his hair, lunges over the driver’s seat, and pulls down the overhead mirror, the automatic light coming on and illuminating Chris’ face just enough. 

He turns back just in time to see Chris’ eyes blinking open, startled again, and even bluer and brighter under the light.

“Hi. Sorry, I know it’s early,” Zach says nervously. There is something so disarming about this guy.

“It’s alright,” Chris grunts, keeping his eyes open this time, though he still doesn’t look quite ready to be where he is. 

“Did you get to eat?” Zach asks quietly, already readying a couple of concealers to test on Chris’ skin.

“Not hungry,” Chris says, taking another deep breath like before and pushing it through the “O” of his lips.

Even though they spend most of the day together, with Zach building on Chris’ bruises and touching him up during and between setups, that’s the last thing they say to each other. Chris is probably the least talkative actor Zach has ever worked on, though considering the subject matter, of today’s shoot in particular, he doesn’t suppose it would be natural for Chris to want to bullshit with him. Still, he gets the sense that Chris wouldn’t want to engage no matter what they were shooting, so he adjusts accordingly like always, only giving Chris quiet updates as he applies and removes. 

At lunch, Zach finally emerges from the van and into the sunlight, stretching his long legs, utterly cramped from sitting amongst the equipment listening to his iPod or reading while waiting for more work to do. Chris has disappeared though, opting for a walk by himself, J.J. explains. “Really tough stuff coming up,” he says. 

Zach has no idea what to expect from the finished product of the film; while the scene they’re filming today is in the script, it isn’t scripted, so he can only imagine what it will ultimately entail. He’s suddenly glad for the van; even when he’s super aware that things are simulated, they can still be difficult to watch.

When everyone’s done eating, J.J. dismisses over half the crew, and Zach retreats to the van, finding Chris seated in his usual spot, waiting patiently. “On time, as always,” Zach smiles, reaching for his kit again. His grin widens as he imagines Chris walking around Williamsburg covered in fake bruises, scaring the hipsters right out of their suspenders. 

At a certain point in the afternoon, Zach has a long stretch where he isn’t needed. He tries to distract himself by pairing his book with his iPod, but he eventually ends up falling asleep in the passenger seat of the van. He startles at a knock on the window, opening his eyes to find the sun setting and Chris right outside looking relaxed and expectant.

Zach disengages the locks on the doors and clumsily pulls the passenger seat back to an upright position. He pushes his sunglasses back into his hair and makes a mental note to bring a bandana with him tomorrow to use as a headband. 

“ _Hey_ ,” Chris says, so effervescent he’s glowing, even through the near-mask of bloody makeup he still has attached to his face. “That’s a wrap on today, good sir.”

“Yeah?” Zach mutters, disoriented. “Okay, let me get that stuff off of you.”

“You mean I don’t get to wear it home?” Chris winks at him as he wriggles into the seat, making himself comfortable.

Zach still hasn’t quite caught up with this new and improved model of Chris, so he’s slow on the uptake. He simply shakes his head and mumbles an amused _No_ before pouring some makeup remover onto a cotton round and working it around the edges of Chris’ most prominent fake wound. “This isn’t going to feel great.”

“Understatement, I’m sure,” Chris says, trying to hold still and mostly failing, his leg jiggling as he nearly vibrates right out of his skin. 

“So how did everything go today?” Zach peels the sticky wounds away as expeditiously as possible, trying to not leave any marks on Chris in the process. 

“Really well,” Chris sighs, sounding mostly satisfied. “Thank you for not insisting on talking this morning, by the way. I was so fucking nervous, I thought I was gonna start throwing up meals from childhood.”

Zach gives a surprised giggle, manually turning Chris’ face toward him and making sure that he’s clear of everything but concealer. From this proximity, his lashes are so dark they look tinted, his brows full and artfully unruly, rendering his eyes even more unreal. Chris licks his lips, drawing Zach’s attention there for the first time, which is crazy considering how full and naturally pink they are. Zach had been so caught up in his work today that he’d barely noticed the canvas he’d been given.

“You’re good,” he says, reaching down toward his feet for makeup remover wipes. “These should take care of the rest.”

“Thanks, man.” Chris takes one to his face and swipes it around. 

“Sure.” Zach crawls back into the passenger seat to gather up his personal stuff, taking his time so he’s out of Chris’ way. He pulls the mirror down to get a look at his own reflection, only to find an image of Chris shimmying out of his camo pants behind him. Zach averts his eyes just a little too late, watching the color rise in his own cheeks as the zip of Chris’ jeans echoes loudly throughout the van.

“Zach.” Chris extends a hand over his shoulder. “Pleasure.”

Zach takes his hand and twists awkwardly in the seat. “Yeah, you too. See you tomorrow.”

And then Chris gives him maybe the sweetest fucking smile he’s ever seen before thanking him, wishing him a good night, and hopping out onto the sidewalk and fading into the rearview.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Chris looks nervous again—but a brighter version of nervous. Zach arrives at the warehouse where they’re shooting to find him curled up on the floor in a corner, far from the rest of the cast and crew, tearing into an everything bagel with cream cheese, pretty eyes going wide as flecks of salt and garlic fall into a cup of coffee set between his thighs. “Hey.” His mouth is still full.

Zach lays a hand on his shoulder in greeting. “You’re just too endearing for your own good, aren’t you?”

“Endearing or embarrassing? The jury is still out.” Chris sucks tiny clouds of cream cheese off of his fingertips and shrugs helplessly at his ruined coffee. “Do you want me?”

Zach nearly flinches at the accuracy of the question. “No, take a few minutes. I’m going to grab some food and get everything set up in there.” He gestures to a secluded room on the opposite end of the row from where the crew is setting up. “Do you want another coffee?” Zach smirks.

“I’ll get it.” Chris rolls his eyes at himself. “Thanks.”

Once they’re both settled and fed, they sit in the center of an otherwise empty room, surrounded by much more space than they need or would know what to do with. Chris sits upright in a stool, breathing steadily, arms hanging loosely between his open thighs, eyes closed as Zach applies concealer. Their work together won’t be so intense today, as Chris will need just a faded version of the final wounds Zach created yesterday, though maintaining continuity will take time and patience. 

The air between them is quiet again but much more amiable than it had been yesterday. They only converse out of necessity and in hushed voices, as if trying to maintain some modicum of peace in an otherwise hectic environment, the gruff voices of the crew rising to the ceiling and bouncing off the metal walls, even from afar.

“Do you like your job?” Chris asks, opening an eye to peer at Zach.

“I do.” Zach smiles softly, voice steady as he concentrates on recreating Chris’ most prominent wound. “Well, unfortunately, I can’t consider this my job. I haven’t quite gotten to a point where I’m making a living off of it, you know? I have to supplement with temp work and other things that I hate doing.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes,” Chris sighs.

“It’s challenging. Unless you have something really unique to offer—stay still—it’s just about who you know, in make-up. So I’ve really been focusing on fight make-up. It’s not what I prefer to do, but it’s cool. It’s sort of become my bread-and-butter over the last few months.” Zach grimaces, shaking his head at himself. “I should stop bitching. I mean, what I do isn’t hard. Compared to what you do, it’s nothing. Having to control your emotions for a living? I can’t even imagine.”

Chris waves a hand in dismissal. “Eh, it’s stupid. It’s mostly playing pretend.”

Zach looks at him. “It isn’t for you, though, I can tell.”

Chris’ eyes fill with something ineffable but uncontrollable. He fights a smile in the name of keeping his face still. “It isn’t.” His leg starts jiggling again, like yesterday. “With this film especially, I just really want to treat it with dignity. Not like some Lifetime movie.”

Zach smiles wide. “I have to confess, I love Lifetime movies. I’ve always wanted to work on one.”

Chris loses the fight to not grin. “Sorry.” He quickly rights his face. “I worked on something similar recently, actually. One of those true crime reenactment things.”

“I love those!” Zach actually lowers his brush for a moment to compose himself. “Oh my God.” Like any gay man worth his salt, he _loves_ trashy TV.

“It was actually fun. But totally ridiculous. I had to drag a body bag onto the beach and push it out to sea. We shot it in Rockaway in the middle of the night. There was no scripted dialogue; it was all improvised. It’ll probably be in black-and-white and slow-motion—you won’t even be able to see my face.” 

Zach smiles, distracted by Chris’ description.

“Most of the on-camera work I’ve done has been like that. This is really the best project I’ve gotten. I’m hoping it’s something people actually see, as opposed to something that just ends up on my reel that embarrasses the shit out of me.” 

“Yeah, it’d be great if it gets some festival play like J.J.’s planning. This is probably the best thing I’ve worked on, too, if it’s any consolation.” Focusing on fight make-up has meant a lot of (shitty) martial arts films for Zach, though at least they aren’t pretending to be something more than they actually are. Zach takes a deep breath and exhales on a sigh. “So.” He puts on his obligatory-question voice. “Have you considered moving to L.A.?”

Chris licks his lips carefully, avoiding a fake cut at the corner of his mouth, which is still slightly tacky. “I grew up there, actually.”

Zach lowers his hands, his mouth open. “ _Really?_ Huh. Come to think of it, I did detect a little west coast in your accent.”

“ _Oh no._ I thought I successfully had it beaten out of me in college, doing theatre.”

“I don’t know,” Zach teases as he pulls up a photo of Chris from yesterday on his phone for reference, distracted for a moment by how fucking photogenic he is even in the worst possible lighting situation. “Say ‘happiness.’” He watches Chris’ face screw up adorably in hesitation. 

“...Happiness?” Chris growls, kicking out his legs and clenching his fists. Zach laughs. “There it is; _fuck._ ”

Zach stills him with a few fingertips to his chin. “Okay. Easy, killer. I need to fix this one.” He pulls out concealer to essentially white-out the work he’s already done. 

Chris stills obediently, though his eyes remain on Zach’s in challenge. “I could totally control it if I needed to. I’m very skilled with dialects.”

“Mm hmm.” Zach bites at his lip as he corrects his mistake. “So why not L.A.? Why didn’t you stay there? I’m sure you fit right in.”

“How so?” Chris’ voice suddenly goes low, suspicious. 

“Well.” Zach gestures vaguely over his face and body. “You do fit a certain type.”

Chris sighs heavily. “The joys of being conventionally attractive. I was a dime a dozen out there, man. It was pretty unsettling, actually.”

He squirms in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, and Zach suddenly feels fiercely guilty for the compliment. Even yesterday, he’d gotten the sense that Chris isn’t totally at peace with his leading man looks, carrying them like a working class man in a really expensive new suit.

“It’s not what I want to be known for.” Chris somehow manages to sound both determined and dejected. 

“I get it,” Zach says, though he feels distinctly out of his element, despite all of the bullshitting he’s done with actors over the past couple of years. He should drop the topic completely, but he wants to better understand. “It has to help, though, right?”

“Yeah, but it can also be really limiting. I mean, it’s a double-edged sword. You get a lot of work for a few years, maybe, but you don’t have any longevity. You’re marketable because you look a certain way, but you’re also—”

“Forgettable.”

Chris pauses, his mouth drawing up tight. Zach knows what he’s thinking without him even having to say it: _Am I forgettable?_

Zach avoids his eyes, that guilt blossoming in his chest again as he finishes up. “Okay. Wanna check it out?” He reaches for his hand mirror. 

Chris’ eyes brighten as he looks over his face in the reflection. “Wow. _Very_ cool. You’re awesome at this.”

“I’m available for parties and other special occasions, too, so. If you ever want to look like you’ve gotten the shit kicked out of you at a Bar Mitzvah.” Chris cackles, and Zach smiles, feeling like he’s successfully brought him back to neutral.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’re all set, so if you don’t mind calling Zoe in.” Zoe is the actress playing Chris’ wife—a spitfire, if Zach’s introduction to her this morning was any indication.

“Sure, no problem.” Chris rises to his feet with a sigh and rolls his shoulders. “Off to channel Jodie Foster in _The Accused._ ”

Zach laughs, taken aback by Chris’ odd sense of humor, trying and failing to not look after him as he strides out of the room. His work with Zoe is a blur. She’s very chatty about the history of rape scenes in film (impressively knowledgeable about it, too), and her Queens attitude is refreshing. He’s so used to wide-eyed out-of-towners who just moved to the big city to make a name for themselves— _transplants with implants_ , Zoe calls them. He’d probably be much more tolerant of them if he didn’t see so much of his younger, more naive self in them. 

The warehouse is hot, and so are the lights, so Zach is expected off-camera to do touch-ups. The crew is minimal, like yesterday, because J.J. wants the scene to be as intimate as possible. The scene itself calls for a confrontation; Chris’ character has been withdrawn and touchy since returning home, and his wife has run out of understanding. Zach plasters himself against a far wall and avoids actively watching. He gets the feeling that Chris can easily be tripped up when working.

He recalls the legend of Jodie Foster shooting the courtroom scene in _The Accused_ , how Jonathan Kaplan kept pushing her to cry and she just couldn’t make it happen—until after dozens of takes, she’d been so frustrated with Kaplan and with herself that a single tear managed to roll down her cheek. When it comes down to it, actors really are the heroes of any set. Even the crew members, for whom the actors are also colleagues, can’t help but obsess over their performances, even when they aren’t stars in the world at large (not yet, anyway). Zach wonders if Chris is trying to work himself up to a moment like that just now.

He doesn’t watch him, though. But he does listen intently as the scene plays out, starting with a long, frustrated monologue from Zoe. Zach can hear the warmth of their bodies interacting with one another, skin against skin, a hand brushing a face or a bicep. Chris’ first line comes, and his voice erupts from him, gruff and unrecognizable, forcing Zach’s eyes up from the floor. 

Chris is leaning up against what are meant to be the cabinets of his and Zoe’s kitchen, arms bent and bracing him there, coiled as Zoe tries to wind around him from behind, where she sits perched on top of the counter. Everything about him is different. He even looks bigger, standing there in a loose, rust-colored t-shirt and jeans, poised for a fight. There’s a raw energy emanating from just underneath his skin, something instinctual, almost desperate, like Brando in _Streetcar_. It’s a horribly cliche example, Zach realizes, but it’s totally appropriate, too. Chris even looks like young Brando a bit. They almost have the same mouth.

His eyes are what ultimately hold Zach captive, though, shimmering with unshed emotion under the lights. 

When Zach has to do his first touch-up, he wants to say something, anything, to Chris. But he fears that the words will sound small and stupid in his mouth, trivial considering the source, and, on a more serious note, he sincerely fears that even a genuine compliment might throw Chris off of his game. 

So he does his best to communicate his admiration with his eyes, taking extra care with Chris’ face as he tends to his make-up in reverent silence. Chris clearly notices the change, color rising in his cheeks as Zach thumbs away an errant bit of fake blood on his bottom lip. 

“Thanks,” Chris breathes before turning to reset, and it’s almost as intimate as the scene Zach’s just watched. 

The second take is even more mesmerizing than the first, Zoe and Chris really connecting with each other this time, even though most of their conversation takes place with Chris’ back to her. The scene ends with her hands sliding down over his shoulders and folding over his heart, her legs squeezing him at his sides. Zach wonders what he would feel like under his own hands, flush with his own thighs, the warmth of his strong back underneath his own chest. 

Zach had really thought he was over developing lightning-fast crushes with little to no basis. Apparently not.


	3. Chapter 3

Zach arrives on set the next day subsisting on a shitload of caffeine and three hours’ sleep, if that. He’d gotten home late from shooting the night before, which is certainly not unusual, but it probably doesn’t help that he’d spent the subsequent three hours tracking down every piece of footage of Chris that he could possibly find. Among the wreckage: his acting reel (of course, the most readily accessible, via YouTube), a couple of really terrible student films buried in a string of links from NYU film festivals, and, hilariously, a spec commercial for Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches (which, bless the director, included plenty of shots of Chris shooting hoops in someone’s backyard, in gym shorts and a tight white tanktop).

He’d also spent an ungodly amount of time on a blog Chris used to update regularly from about 2008-2009 that had nothing to do with his acting but consisted of book and movie reviews, remarks on current events and social issues (including one very torturous rumination on gay marriage that sent Zach _deep_ into Fantasyland), and funny little observations about his everyday life and New York in particular. 

Frankly, it makes Zach feel more than slightly pervy when he stumbles upon Chris waiting in the make-up room, in an actual make-up chair since they’re working in an actual studio today. But it also makes him feel like he’s holding all the cards. His smile carries a delicious secret as he wishes Chris a good morning. 

Chris smiles sweetly, naively back, drumming his hands on the armrests. His eyes travel the length of Zach’s torso before returning to his face. “Good morning to _you_. Nice digs, huh?” He swivels in the chair a bit, gesturing to the ample space around them.

“Definitely.” Zach strides over to him, setting down his coffee on the counter and setting all his shit down at the adjacent station. He flicks the vanity lights on just as Chris spins around to face the mirror, squinting and wincing. Zach giggles a little, already rolling out his army of brushes. “Would you like some of my coffee?” he teases.

Chris waves him off. “No, I’m not tired. Blue eyes are just sensitive to light.”

“Ah, that’s right. And yours must be especially sensitive because they are especially blue.”

“Something like that,” Chris smiles, ducking his head, said eyes still not at full capacity. 

Zach holds a brush between his teeth as he examines their setup here, trying to determine the best way for him to work on Chris. He pulls the brush from his mouth and grabs one of the armrests of Chris’ chair, swiveling it to face him so he can grip it two-handed. “Excuse me while I manhandle you.” 

“Please do,” Chris says lightly, pulling his limbs in comically while Zach swivels him away from the mirror and hops onto the counter. Hovering over Chris like this is going to do a number on his back, but this is how he’ll get the most ideal lighting. He searches for his coffee to no avail, but Chris quickly finds it on the other counter and hands it up to him. “You look wrecked, man. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Zach mixes concealers at the base of his thumb and pulls Chris’ chair closer with his legs. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. But thankfully, I won’t be on stand-by for touch-ups, so maybe I can take a nap while you do all that emoting you so love.” Chris laughs, head tilted helpfully back to give Zach more access to his face. “Don’t smile,” Zach says sternly.

“Then stop being so charming,” Chris shoots back.

_Well. This is an interesting development._ “I’ll do my best,” Zach sighs, then begins applying.

He and Chris fall almost immediately into what’s becoming their usual, zenlike companionable silence. Chris is warm and open in a way that he hasn’t been in the two long days they’ve been working together, watching Zach’s eyes as they map his features along with his brushes and pencils. 

Zach takes stock of Chris’ scars today, marks he’d dutifully ignored the past two days. They’re not an issue on this film anyway, since J.J.’s happy with Chris looking rugged, but Zach wouldn’t have mentioned anything to Chris even if he _had_ been appointed the task of concealing them with filler. There are make-up artists who think it’s their job to point out people’s flaws, and then there are make-up artists who practice the philosophy that beautification works from the inside out. Zach’s proud to be in the latter camp. He’s worked on both kids and adults with severe acne and never mentioned it, even when a shy twelve year-old girl apologized repeatedly for it on the set of a documentary about eating disorders earlier this year. (She’d ended up asking him what he’d used on her, and he’d happily handed over a pot of his Makeup Forever HD Microfinish Powder with a sly finger to his lips.) 

He’s sure Chris had had serious skin problems at some point during his adolescence, if the story his face tells is to be believed. He wonders how Chris had handled it, if he’d been shy or withdrawn, or had he laid on the charm extra thick to compensate? Zach would readily believe either. 

In all the work of his that Zach has seen now, Chris has been many things, and he’s convinced Chris _could_ be anything. He recalls what Chris had said yesterday about wanting to treat this performance with dignity, sounding both hopeful and terribly cynical at the same time. When it comes to Chris’ future, though, Zach is nothing but hopeful. 

When Zach has just passed the halfway mark in their make-up ritual, he clears his throat softly, leaning in close and working carefully on a faded scar on Chris’ cheek—a false one. “So, Chris Pine. What is your ultimate dream? What does your ideal career look like in your head?”

Chris’ eyes fall to his lap, where his hands lay folded. He clearly doesn’t have to think about his reply. “I just want to be good. And,” one of his hands floats through the air and flops back down, “be recognized as good. You know? That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Hmm.” Zach smiles thoughtfully, lowering his arm for a moment to recite a quote. “ _I don’t want to make money, I just want to be wonderful._ ” Chris looks up again with a raised eyebrow. “Marilyn Monroe.”

“I’m not just a dumb blonde, either, I’ll have you know.” 

Close like this, Chris’ voice is a purr that buzzes through his pores like static. 

“You’re not even a blonde,” Zach concedes, spending a little extra time around his mouth. “And you’re already good. Very good.”

“Psh. You’ve barely even—”

“I might have looked you up.” Zach watches for a reaction from Chris, which comes in the form of a blush that rises in his scruffy cheeks. He puts on a doomsday voice. “I’ve seen everything now.”

“Oh _no._ ” Chris pushes a hand through his hair. “You were witness to some atrocious haircuts, then.”

“Not atrocious. Did you just ‘psh’ me?” Zach gently redirects Chris’ face to center as he giggles, fingers bracketing his chin. “You’re incredibly talented. And charismatic. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to watch you on the first day.”

“Well,” Chris sighs, his expression suddenly serious. “Talent is totally subjective, right?”

Zach shakes his head. “Are you that unused to being complimented?” Chris gives an elaborate, uncomfortable shrug, mouth opening and closing as he attempts to concoct a reply. “Well, get used to it. You’re going to be a big deal. I have every confidence in you.”

They settle into a comfortable silence again. 

Chris licks his lips. “So, who would your dream canvas be? Would it be someone like Marilyn Monroe?”

“That is an interesting question.” In fact, no one has ever bothered to ask him that before. “Marilyn _would_ be fascinating. She’s the perfect example of someone who was really transformed by her make-up. Have you ever seen photos of her with nothing on her face? She looks like a completely different person.”

Chris watches him with intrigue. 

“My dream canvas, though?” Zach smirks, recalling the comparison he’d made in his head yesterday. “Probably a young Marlon Brando. Or Paul Newman, circa _Cool Hand Luke._ Speaking of the bluest eyes that ever blued.”

Zach scoots closer to the edge of the counter, ass perched precariously half-on half-off of it. He jumps at warm fingers skating over the stretch of his shirt over his side. He smiles and murmurs, “What are you doing? I’m working on my dream here.”

“It’s nice,” Chris smiles, watching his own hand approvingly, then lifts his eyes to Zach’s again. “I wanted to feel the material.”

“Sure, that’s what they all say.” Zach’s eyebrows furrow in concentration, tongue poking just out of the corner of his mouth. 

Chris’ eyes fall again, this time to the collar of the burgundy dress-shirt, the top two buttons undone and giving him an eyeful, considering Zach’s current position. “Looks good on you.”

Zach grins. “Different from the usual fare, huh?”

“You mean your seventies porn tanktops?” Zach hits him playfully on the thigh with the back of his hand. Chris snickers. “What’s the occasion?”

“I have a lunch date.” Zach thumbs at the plush center of Chris’ bottom lip in the name of wiping away some excess foundation, though he may or may not linger a bit longer than necessary. 

Chris’ tongue darts out, accidentally licking his fingertip. “Is this person worthy? I’m going to need a full profile to do proper due diligence.”

Zach’s face screws up. “I don’t even know.” He can already hear the preemptive disappointment in his own voice. “It’s kind of a set-up situation.” He replaces the last brush in his kit and leans back on his hands, eyeing Chris’ whole face for a long moment. He nods. “You’re all set.”

Chris blows out a breath Zach hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “Well, I hope the conversation is good at least.”

Zach lets out the world-weary grunt of a scarred veteran of the gay dating scene in New York as he hops off the counter and gives a stretch. He turns to the mirror, slipping an eyeliner pencil from his kit. “ _I_ just hope he’s not crazy. Or stupid. Or married. Or some enchanting combination of all three.” He leans close to the mirror and pencils in his lower lids. 

He feels Chris’ presence next to him, likely checking out Zach’s work on his face. But when Zach glances to his right in the reflection, Chris’ only interest seems to be in watching him. He nearly pokes himself in the eye. Chris smiles softly, and Zach swears he can feel his fucking toes curl in his Converse sneakers. “Nice touch,” Chris says. 

Later, when his freshly divorced date is showing him pictures of his and his ex-wife’s kids on his phone, Zach spends the entire time totally zoned out, fantasizing about Chris sitting across the table from him. It’s a dangerous game with which he’s all too familiar—he doesn’t even know if Chris likes guys—but he just can’t help it. 

He’ll stop. As soon as the shoot’s over, he’ll stop.


End file.
